Poems About Poets Viii

Poems for Poets VIII Fireflies thinking to illuminate the darkness? Poets! —Michael R. Burch BeMused by Michael R. Burch You will find in her hair a fragrance more severe than camphor. You will find in her dress no hint of a sweet distractedness. You will find in her eyes horn-owlish and wise no metaphors of love, but only reflections of books, books, books. If you like Her looks, meet me in the long rows, between Poetry and Prose, where we’ll win Her favor with jousts, and savor the wine of Her hair, the shimmery wantonness of Her rich-satined dress; where we’ll press our good deeds upon Her, save Her from every distress, for the lovingkindness of Her matchless eyes and all the suns of Her tongues. We were young, once, unlearned and unwise... but, O, to be young when love comes disguised with the whisper of silks and idolatry, and even the childish tongue claims the intimacy of Poetry. Impotent by Michael R. Burch Tonight my pen is barren of passion, spent of poetry. I hear your name upon the rain and yet it cannot comfort me. I feel the pain of dreams that wane, of poems that falter, losing force. I write again words without end, but I cannot control their course... Tonight my pen is sullen and wants no more of poetry. I hear your voice as if a choice, but how can I respond, or flee? I feel a flame I cannot name that sends me searching for a word, but there is none not over-done, unless it's one I never heard. The Monarch’s Rose by Michael R. Burch I lead you here to pluck this florid rose still tethered to its post, a dreary mass propped up to stiff attention, winsome-thorned (what hand was ever daunted less to touch such flame, in blatant disregard of all but atavistic beauty)? Does this rose not symbolize our love? But as I place its emblem to your breast, how can this poem, long centuries deflowered, not debase all art, if merely genuine, but not “original”? Love, how can reused words though frailer than all petals, bent by air to lovelier contortions, still persist, defying even gravity? For here beat Monarch’s wings: they rise on emptiness! Over(t) Simplification by Michael R. Burch A sonnet is not simple, but the rule is simply this: let poems be beautiful, or comforting, or horrifying. Move the reader, and the world will not reprove the idiosyncrasies of too few lines, too many syllables, or offbeat beats. A sonnet is not simple, but the rule is simply this: let poems be beautiful. Keywords/Tags: words, writing